GUNSHOT
by Sultan Peppershaker
Summary: A man with a gun.


I never wanted to get tested. My friends said I had to, since they all did it. Lindsay got "DROWNING." Danielle's card said "NATURAL CAUSES." Ryan got "HEART ATTACK." We all have ours, they'd say. What could it hurt? What could knowing hurt?

It wasn't that I was afraid I would get "FIRE" or "DROWNING" or one of the really painful ways to go, it's just that I always fancied myself as a free spirit, someone who was in charge of his own fate. I guess the fact that the Machine has never been wrong kind of means that there's really no such thing as free will, though. That it's all an illusion, because even if we have a semblance of control over our lives, they're always doomed to end in a specific way.

Lindsay says I shouldn't take life so seriously, since I'm not gonna survive it anyway. I don't know how somebody who knows she'll most likely die slowly and painfully can have such a positive attitude about it. She says I can put it off, though, make my life both as enjoyable and long as possible. She didn't go to the beach after getting her card. Sure, it's easy to avoid something like large bodies of water, but what about the ones you can't avoid, like heart attacks or strokes?

I never wanted to get tested, but they pushed me into it. I remember looking ahead at the black screen, the little green box blinking rhythmically as it analyzed my blood. I remember the whirring of the centrifuge inside it as it quickly and seemingly impossibly sampled my DNA (or whatever it does, I'm not quite sure how those Machines really work... come to think of it, I'm not sure anybody does). In a matter of mere moments, I would learn at least one aspect of my final moments on Earth.

When it printed the card, it sounded like one of those old school line matrix printers, whining and whirring before it spit the card out of the slot next to the screen. I looked at the screen one last time. "PLEASE TAKE YOUR CARD," it read. So I did, and I slowly flipped it over.

* * *

><p>That day's morning class started pretty normally. Lindsay, Ryan, Danielle, and I were sitting together, talking amongst ourselves. The professor was a few minutes late, which wasn't unusual.<p>

Professor White was a pretty uptight guy. He had a flair for the dramatic. To be honest, he would've made a much better actor than a history professor. He was a bit over six feet tall, thin as a rail, and he'd wear his blonde hair combed back every day.

Lindsay was saying something about her plans for the weekend when Professor White came in, suitcase under his arm as usual. He didn't so much as acknowledge us as he walked to the desk and sat down, setting his briefcase on the desk by the computer. The class kept talking amongst themselves, but I kept an eye on Mr. White. He didn't log onto the computer. He didn't even turn it on. His face looked unusually pale. He just sat there, staring off into the distance. For what must have been five minutes, he barely even moved. I turned to talk with Lindsay some more.

After a while, he walked up to the table at the front of the classroom and stood behind it. He then quietly set down his briefcase, opened it up, then calmly took out some papers and then a silver revolver. I felt my feet grow cold and the color drain from my face. The chatter in the class quickly died down as all eyes turned to him.

Apparently noticing the whole class going silent, the professor glanced up at us. "Oh, don't worry about this. It's not for you, it's for me. I just thought I'd ask you all a few questions before I end my misery..."

Lindsay leaned over and whispered in my ear, "_Is that real?_"

I know fuck-all about guns, but when he set it down on the table, it sure as hell _sounded_ real.

"I want you all to take out a piece of paper," he said as he took out a small box from his briefcase and set it on the table. It made a slight metallic clatter. "Write about the favorite teacher you've ever had. Why do _you_ think they chose to be a teacher? Please don't make it about me. I don't want any pity. Just write."

There were only about 15 students in that class, myself included. Almost all of them immediately reached for their binders. A few of us were staring at him for a few seconds, too shocked or frightened to do anything. Eventually I snapped out of my paralysis and tore a sheet out of my notebook and started writing.

There I was, sitting in my desk near the back of the room. I was in the desk in the row. The exit door was 10 feet away from me. I was literally a hop, step, and a jump away from escaping this nightmare, but there was no way I would dare to do it. None of us would. Hell, I could have even jumped out the window - the class was only on the first floor. But I was worried that the glass might not break. Or even if it did, that the gun would turn out to be a prop. Professor White was always very dramatic..

So instead I started writing a crappy essay about my 10th grade psychology teacher, Mr. Hallcraft. I heard Professor White put a bullet into the revolver. I thought it was just one, but I didn't dare to look up and try to find out. I turned my eyes all the way up and saw his shoes pacing back and forth at the front of the classroom.

I was never that into school to begin with, and White wasn't one of my favorite teachers. He tended to make a big deal out of things. He'd get really dramatic if we did bad on a test. Some of the students said that he had a drug problem. I was always suspicious, but at that point, the thought of him being strung out on something made my terror even more real.

His voice broke the silence, and made me and about five other students jolt up in our chairs. "Would anyone like to read what they've written?" Not a single volunteer.

_For fuck's sake, _I thought, _somebody volunteer_.

"What about you, Christy?", he asked, pointing the hand without a magnum in it at a young blonde woman in the second row.

I could barely make out her response as she feebly confesses, "Oh... but... I'm not finished..."

"That's alright," White insisted as he beckoned her up front, setting a stool in front of the table. "Come up and read what you've written. Let's give her a hand, hmm class?"

We all started clapping like trained monkeys, though not too enthusiastically. It's amazing what people will do for a man with a gun in his hand.

The poor blonde girl slowly got up and nervously walked to the front. Every move she made betrayed her fear. I couldn't blame her. Professor White looked strangely encouraging as he sat down in his seat. He told her to start reading. She squeaked out the first few words and he asked her to speak louder, so we all can hear.

She started talking about her 4th grade teacher. She talked about how she really encouraged her students and how she helped them think critically, even though she didn't realize it at the time. She talked about how she taught them their times tables and how she made learning fun. Professor White shook his head at that.

"Fun," he said, still shaking his head. "Teachers who try to make learning fun are generally the ones who have the highest failure rates. Did you know that?"

Christy shook her head.

"Are your classes now fun? Was high school fun?"

Christy shook her head.

"Of course not. It's not SUPPOSED to be! Being a good teacher isn't about making it FUN to learn TIMES TABLES!"

Christy slunk back at his outburst, and the rest of the class held our collective breath. Professor White heaved a sigh.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Christy, I just- I'm frustrated. See, she actually said I wasn't fun. Not fun enough." He let out a crazy high-pitched laugh. Christy twisted her paper in her hands.

A few agonizing moments passed as he paced back and forth. Then he turned to Christy and told her she could take her seat. She jumped out of her chair so fast, I still can't believe it didn't fall over. She quickly sat down as Professor White asked somebody else to read. Nobody volunteered, again.

He picked out another volunteer, a short Indian woman. She actually seemed a little less threatened than Christy did. She slowly but more purposefully made her way to the front.

I barely paid attention to her story. I was just watching him, the gun still in his hand. He had the cylinder swung out and was slowly spinning it with his left hand.

I then noticed that Lindsay had been staring at me for a while. For how long, I had no clue. She looked absolutely mortified. I couldn't blame her. She was probably scared for my life. I sure as hell was.

Mallika finished her story and Professor White started looking for another volunteer. He wanted to hear from the back of the room. I remember hoping that I'd suddenly discover the ability to turn invisible.

Then he looked right at me and pointed with his empty left hand. "What about you? With the black hair? I'm sorry, I forgot your name."

After a pause of what couldn't have been more than a few seconds, I raise my hand to my chest. Me?

He nodded. Me.

This was it.

I slowly stood up and look over at Lindsay. I couldn't even think of anything to say to her. Ryan and Danielle were both staring at me too. Most of the class was, but the look of absolute horror and dread in my three friends' eyes said it all.

I grabbed my paper and slowly walked to the front of the room. It felt more like I was floating. Professor White was looking at me with what I think was supposed to be a smile.

I had never been more petrified as I was when I was walking up to the front of the room. Everything about him put me on edge. His pained tone of voice, his erratic movements, his unpredictable behavior.

"Well, tell everybody your name."

I cleared my throat and muttered "Derek."

"And who did you write about, Derek?"

I pause for a second. Who _did_ I write about? I don't even remember writing an essay. "Um... my psychology teacher from high school. Mr. Hallcraft."

"Tell us about Mr. Hallcraft, if you would, Derek."

I don't remember what it was that I wrote. To be honest, 90% of it was bullshit. I just wanted to sound like I was on his side. I wanted to sound like I had sympathy for teachers so he wouldn't kill himself, but mostly so he wouldn't kill me. When I finished, I slowly looked over at him.

"Why do you think Mr. Hallcraft became a teacher, Derek?"

I kept staring at the gun for a few seconds before looking up at him. He had a pained smile on his face.

"Um, I don't... know, I... I guess he wanted to... to make a difference in our lives..."

"Your speech was very nice. Very beautiful. You should be glad to have had a professor like Mr. Hallcraft."

I slowly nodded. Apparently he liked it.

"Did Mr. Hallcraft have a wife? A family?" he asked, his voice shaking with what I thought was either anger or frustration.

I slowly looked up at him. Before I can answer, another professor, a really big guy, probably about 6'4" and 240 pounds, walked in the room and slowly approaches him. The man put a hand on Professor White's shoulder and said some things I couldn't hear. Professor White started sobbing and slowly put the gun down on the table. The other man took it away, unloaded it, and cleared it away. I sighed in relief, quickly headed back to my desk and collapsed in it. I felt as if I had just ran ten miles. Lindsay leaned over and patted me on the back. Ryan sighed loudly in relief, and Danielle kept muttering "thank God."

* * *

><p>The police came in a few minutes later. They didn't need to cuff Professor White. He voluntarily left with them. The president of the university showed up a few minutes later and apologized to us all about what had happened. As it turns out, Mr. White did have a drug habit, and on top of that, his wife had left him and won full custody of their daughter.<p>

The man who came in and took the gun from Mr. White was a friend of his, a sociology professor. I took one of his classes the next semester. He recognized me and tried to cover for Mr. White. It wasn't the first time he tried to cover for him. He would say the gun wasn't real or it wasn't loaded, but Ryan said from what he could tell, it looked real.

There's really nothing that prepares you for the possibility of someone you view as an authority figure spiraling out of control and losing all stability. I mostly remember how surreal the whole situation was. I could sense his emotional instability. All my years of watching action movies, playing video games, and shit like that never prepared me for that day. I worked at a fast food place during college and would sometimes daydream about the place getting robbed at gunpoint, and how I'd subdue the robber and save the day... but sitting there next to an unstable man with a gun in his hand really drove home how little control I had over the situation.

I never wanted to get tested. My card says I'm supposed to die from a "GUNSHOT". If I had gotten almost anything else, I never would've felt so terrified in that classroom.

I actually saw Mr. White a few years later. He apologized to me for the whole thing. He had put on some weight and lost some of his hair. I guess I was glad to see he didn't kill himself. I told him it was okay. But really it's not.

Sometimes I wonder if it would've been easier if he had just killed me that day. Now I've been living with the spectre of something like that happening to me again. Part of me wonders if getting out of that alive was really a good thing.

Because to tell you the truth, I know how he felt.


End file.
